by Tarlan
Sitting at his desk, Skinner sipped the hot, black liquid, savouring the
smooth, mellow taste; deeply inhaling the rich aroma that slowly filled the
room, bringing a touch of homeliness to the sterile surroundings - and smiled.
Chasing away the musty, paper smell of 'office' was always his first task of
the day. After all, he spent a lot of his time in this room.
"Hell, Walt, you spend most of your life in here."
He grumbled to himself as usual, keeping his voice low so if his secretary
did overhear him talking away, then she would assume he was on the phone.
It was true though. Apart from the twice-weekly visit to the Gym, he seemed
to spend most of his waking life at work: more so than ever since the divorce.
It was no wonder Sharon had moved on and had found herself another man. Perhaps
if they had been able to have kids? But the joys of parenthood had been denied
to them. At first they had talked of adopting but, for one reason or another he
had procrastinated, putting it off until it was too late. In hindsight, he knew
why. Having children was her dream, not his. For no matter how much he cared
for her, he couldn't cope with the idea of taking responsibility for another
life, especially within their sham of a marriage. Oh, he had played the dutiful
husband to perfection, never allowing Sharon to see how hard it was for him to
share her bed; putting the blame for his lack of sexual drive on the pressures
of work. Marrying her had been a grave mistake but, when he returned from
Vietnam, confused by so many aspects of his life, still shell-shocked from his
near-death experience, she had seemed an anchor that he could hold on to. By
the time he realised his mistake it was far too late and, if nothing else, he
was an honourable man, taking his vows seriously.
After Sharon had left him he had felt an incredible loneliness, but had
still shied away from accepting the truth of his orientation. He had preferred
to assuage that loneliness, for a few short hours, with some nameless woman,
rather than take the risk of picking up a stranger in one of the many Gay bars
that littered downtown Washington DC. After all, he had a reputation to uphold
and being caught with a female Hooker was far less damaging than being caught
with a 'rent boy'.
Skinner closed his eyes and breathed in more of the coffee aroma, then
grimaced. The worst side effect of loneliness was this penchant for deep
introspection that seemed to go nowhere. He eyed the thickly padded envelope
again as a means of distracting himself from the thoughts that were circling
around in his head.
"Aaahh, to hell with it."
Curiosity finally got the better of him and he put down the mug and picked
up the slim paper knife, slicing through the brown tape that sealed the
envelope. He peered inside, eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. Finally,
he gave up trying to make sense of the contents and tipped the package up.
Pieces of metal and plastic bounced across the desktop. He sighed. Whatever it
was, some heavy-handed clerk had managed to break it.
A small piece of paper fluttered down amongst the debris. Skinner reached
for it, noting the handwritten words on one side. He repeated the words aloud,
trying to make sense of them.
"Sorry doesn't always make it right, but I hope this is a start."
He laid the piece of paper on the desk in front of him and sat back in his
seat, the frown still creasing his forehead. There was something strangely
familiar about the writing. He felt he had seen it many times before but...
Skinner removed his glasses to rub a hand, wearily, across his eyes. He
couldn't begin to list all the people he felt owed him some sort of an apology,
from the ignorant cab driver who had cut him up on the way in... to that
duplicitous rat bastard who had made his life a living hell.
That last thought gave him a start.
No. It couldn't be.
He leant forward and depressed the button that connected him to his
secretary.
"Kimberley. Would you ask Records to send up one of Agent Krycek's reports.
One with handwritten notation."
"Yes, Sir."
He barely noticed the query in her voice, his own thoughts already
travelling, uneasily, along a new path. With a tight grimace, Skinner pushed
the thoughts aside. Until he could make a comparison there was nothing to be
gained by idle speculation. He shoved the mess of broken plastic, metal, and
wire to one side, and reached into his in-tray for the first of the many
reports that he needed to attend to today. Some time later, he looked up
briefly to acknowledge the arrival of today's new post as Kimberley placed a
small pile onto the corner of his desk, then he returned to the report he was
reading.
Almost an hour passed before she returned carrying a single file.
"Sir, this is the report you requested."
Marking his place, he put aside the document he was reading and took the
file, dismissing his secretary with a courteous 'Thank you'.
Skinner grimaced, his mouth a tight line of barely controlled anger as he
matched the two sets of handwriting. All he had to do now was figure out what
nefarious deed that double-crossing, rat bastard, was apologising for.
He reached over and picked up two of the larger pieces of plastic, fitting
them together until he could make out what looked like a small logo; Palm
Pilot. His eyebrows raised in surprise as another thought made it's way
through.
"No. It couldn't be."
He dropped the pieces back onto the desktop and picked up the paper,
rereading the words.
For one paralysing moment he almost believed it could be true. That Krycek
really had sent him the palm pilot that controlled the nanocytes in his blood,
but then paranoia brought him crashing back to Earth. He sneered. Just because
it looked like the small black box Krycek had wielded during all their recent
encounters didn't mean it was the real thing... or the only control device.
He wouldn't put it past that rat bastard to send him this as some sort of game
to soften him up before another pile of dung dropped on him from a great
height.
With a sweep of his hand he pushed all the pieces into the wastebasket by
the side of his desk. Staring at them for a while, his thoughts turning to all
the ways he would make Krycek pay for the suffering and humiliation he had been
forced to endure over this past year, if ever he had the opportunity.
11:15 a.m.
Krycek checked over his shoulder for the umpteenth time that day and then
checked his watch. Time was running out. He had managed to make most of the
necessary arrangements but this last task was taking far longer than he had
anticipated. His thoughts travelled back to the night before when, with several
neat vodkas warming his belly, he had allowed his heart to overrule his head
and made a decision that would have far-reaching consequences. Rather than kill
Skinner as ordered, he had, instead, destroyed the palm pilot. Packaging up the
broken pieces and, in a moment of sheer lunacy, personally taking the package
to FBI Headquarters. He gave a sardonic smile as he imagined Skinner opening
the package. He had added the note as an afterthought, realising how inadequate
it was and yet needing to 'say' the words 'I'm sorry', though he doubted
Skinner would accept his apology so easily.
Probably thinks it's just another game.
His second task of the day had been harder to arrange but, once set upon
this road, he knew it was the most important. He had to ensure no-one else was
given the task of killing Skinner once Spender realised he had no intention of
following the elimination order. To this end he had called in every marker
owed, leaving himself open and vulnerable. He had few illusions. With no one to
protect him his chances of survival were slim, but he'd lived with those odds
before. All he could do for himself was lie low until an opportunity to save
himself arose. He barked out a short, derogatory laugh at his own optimism,
then glanced at his watch once more.
With growing fear and frustration Krycek paced back and forth across the
narrow room, halting suddenly, mid-stride when the Real Estate agent finally
resurfaced.
"Mr Zeitman? I have the necessary papers, if you don't mind signing on this
line here... and here."
Krycek forged the signature in both places indicated and then accepted the
keys.
"Enjoy your stay."
"Thank you."
He gathered up his copies of the contract and made his way back to his car,
giving a final check around before climbing into the driver's seat. Moments
later he was pulling out into the traffic, heading towards the Appalachians,
where hopefully, he would be able to lie low for a few weeks.
A slight figure detached itself from the shadows of a nearby alley and
stared at the fast receding car. Krycek had been ordered to eliminate AD Walter
Skinner and he had been ordered to tail Krycek to ensure he carried out his
appointed task. At first he had assumed the package Krycek had taken into FBI
Headquarters was a bomb, but his associate within the FBI had reported no
explosions, and no call to the bomb squad to deal with any suspicious packages.
As the morning progressed Krycek's movements had become highly suspicious.
The man was calling in markers from many sources, and he had looked around more
anxiously than usual as he placed a holdall into the trunk of his car - like a
man who was about to go underground.
The man decided to take a gamble and, rather than follow Krycek, he strode
across the street to the Real Estate office. He pulled out a very convincing ID
and held it close to the manager's face.
"Excuse me, Sir. Special Agent Harris, FBI. The man who was just in here...
what was he doing?"
Spender placed the handset back onto the cradle and took a deep drag from
the ever-present Morley. There were few people higher than him in the
Consortium these days, and these high-placed individuals rarely revealed their
presence, let alone contacted him directly, so the phone call he had just
received from one of them was totally unexpected.
He took another deep lungful of nicotine and tar, savouring the taste and
the heady sensation as the drug swept through his blood and into his brain,
using the time to consider this phone call and its implications.
Most of the Elders had been killed, along with their families, at the El
Rico Air base massacre; a massacre Spender was convinced Krycek had played a
vital part in, but he had not been able to prove anything. Instead he had been
forced to keep Krycek in his employ, preferring to keep the younger man in
plain sight. He had been playing the waiting game ever since, wondering how
long it would take before Krycek gave him all the reason he needed to give a
final termination order on the young man.
Krycek's recent dealings with Walter Skinner gave him the first clue to
where the younger man's loyalties might lie. He had been ordered to test out
the full effects of the nanocyte technology and, technically speaking, Krycek
had performed this task to the letter. Skinner had died, but Krycek had
allowed the man to be brought back. Why? That was the question Spender asked
himself. Apart from a few murmurings, no-one had questioned this strange
decision to kill the important designer of the technology, Dr Orgel and yet,
allow the relatively unimportant AD Skinner to live... no-one except for him.
When he thought back over the past few years, a pattern started to emerge.
There had been so many occasions when it would have been more expedient to
eliminate Skinner but, instead, Krycek had merely incapacitated the man either
physically, by injuring him in some fashion, or psychologically, by
blackmailing him.
He inhaled another lungful of cigarette smoke, quietly reflecting on his
decision to play out his theory by giving Krycek explicit orders to kill
Skinner. He had justified his position by saying it was a necessary means of
testing the younger man's loyalty, but had not expected to be ordered to
leave Skinner alone.
He reached for the phone and started a series of phone calls, but it did not
take too many to discover that Krycek was at the bottom of it, calling in
favours from all sources.
When the telephone rang once more, Spender picked it up and listened
patiently as Harris outlined Krycek's activities; everything gradually falling
into place. He gave a single order, disconnected that call and then redialled a
new number.
Replacing the phone in its cradle once more, Spender sat back to wait for
the leader of a special team of operatives to arrive.
Harris replaced his cellphone in his jacket pocket and pursed his lips in
thought. Spender had seemed totally unsurprised to hear of Krycek's strange
movements. It occurred to Harris that maybe Spender had some ulterior motive
for ordering Skinner's death at Krycek's hand. The fact that AD Walter Skinner
was still walking and talking certainly showed a lack of concern on Spender's
part. If he truly wanted the AD dead then Skinner would be dead. No. It had
to have something to do with Alex Krycek.
He already suspected that Spender had been testing Krycek's loyalty... and
finding it wanting. Why else would he set a tail on the man if that were not
the case? However, if his suspicions were correct then why had he been given no
kill order for Krycek? Why was he still expected to shadow the one-armed
Consortium agent?
Harris gunned the engine and headed out of the city, on the assumption that
Krycek was now on the run to his secret hideaway. If that were the case then
Krycek was less than ten minutes ahead of him and, if he were lucky, he would
catch up with him on the interstate.
He smiled, enjoying the challenge of tailing someone who was far more astute
and observant that the normal run-of-the-mill target, but Harris had many years
of covert surveillance under his belt; far more than the young man he had
followed about DC. It had not been easy, and there had been one moment when he
thought he had been spotted. He sighed. With a little training, Krycek would
have made a good surveillance operative. Such a shame that he probably wouldn't
be alive much longer.
One Hour Later
Spender took a thoughtful drag, watching the exhaled smoke coil up towards
the ceiling in a twisting blue column, an enigmatic smile playing about his
seamed lips. He could not believe his good fortune but, at the same time, he
was impressed with his former protégé.
Renting an off-season holiday home was a little dangerous but far less
likely to draw attention than breaking and entering on the off chance that
nobody would notice the illegal presence for a few weeks. Most of those small
communities kept a lookout for each other, and on the slightest suspicion, the
local cops would have been called in to check the place over.
His smile widened as Marcus pointed out the cabin's location. It was in a
fairly remote area; tucked away just above the tree line. The chances of anyone
else being close by at that time of year was also pretty unlikely. Spender
ground out the butt end in the ashtray. He could not have planned this any
better himself. All he needed to do now was set the wheels in motion, and then
he would have his revenge on the man who had forced him to kill his own son.
The phone rang. It was Harris confirming that Krycek had taken the small
track up towards the cabin he had rented. Spender told Harris to return to DC,
his presence no longer required, then he glanced into the eager face opposite,
and nodded his head.
Leroy Marcus gave a wide grin; brilliant white teeth dazzling against his
dark skin as Spender, silently, gave the elimination order. He bounced out of
the room like a child who had been promised the most treasured toy in the
world, and Spender wondered whether that metaphor was more appropriate than
anyone could suspect. Marcus seemed to approach his work with a great deal of
zeal, more so than he would have expected from a professional hitman.
Spender sat back and lit another cigarette with a strange feeling of unease
burning inside, his mind drifting back through his long association with one
Alexei Krycek.
He remembered the first time he had ordered Krycek's execution; remembered
the remorse he had felt at the time, for Krycek had been a good operative. But,
Cardinal had insisted that Alex had been the weak link in the debacle
surrounding the stolen MJ-12 tape. If he had not been so tied up trying to save
his own reputation within the Consortium then he might have seen through
Cardinal's lies.
The attempt on Alexei Krycek was one of the many foul-ups that had come back
to haunt him time and time again. He had turned an amenable, eager, intelligent
boy into an adaptable, desperate, dangerous but still highly intelligent man.
Opportunities to correct his mistake and dispose of Krycek permanently had
presented themselves at intervals but there was always someone, or something,
either protecting the boy or swaying his decision.
He thought about all the occasions when Krycek should have died...
He had listened to Alex begging to be released; had stood just along the
corridor as the thumps and frantic cries filled the dead air, but his hands had
been tied. His orders had been to seal the Oilien inside. Krycek was just
unfortunate that he had been sealed in with it. When he returned to Silo 1013
two weeks later he had expected to find the ship gone and was not disappointed.
However, he had also expected to find the decomposing body of Alexei Krycek.
Instead, the silo had been empty. If Mulder's reports were to be believed then
Krycek had been saved by a terrorist group who had been on a 'weapons hunt',
but Spender knew that no-one had entered the Silo facility let alone released
Krycek. The only possible explanation was a source of concern in its own right;
the Colonist had released him.
His thoughts moved on a few years....
When Krycek returned from Russia, minus an arm, with the intention of
forcing the Consortium to pay for information regarding the Rebel aliens, he
had been betrayed by Spender's other disloyal protégé; Marita Covarrubias. If
the Englishman had not taken Krycek under his protection then, there was no
doubt that Krycek would have been executed by the Russians on his arrival back
at Vladivostok. Spender grimaced. If he had not been in hiding at the time then
he might have been the one to be tipped off... and, at the time, he would not
have hesitated to kill Krycek... boy witness or not; vaccine or no vaccine. The
younger man had become a thorn in his side, his involvement with Krycek causing
him untold loss of face leading, eventually, to his own near-death experience.
Spender took another lungful of nicotine and exhaled slowly.
He was not the only one who assumed Krycek would follow his new employer,
the Englishman, to the grave but, for some unknown reason, Alex had not been
chauffeuring on that particular night. If he had not set the bomb himself then
he would have been highly suspicious of the double-crossing assassin. However,
he had expected the First Elder to make this wrong connection and give orders
to have Krycek removed - permanently. Instead Krycek had been elevated in
status within the Consortium, and Spender had been forced to take Krycek back
under his own wing.
To be truthful, Spender was secretly pleased by that turn of events and, if
he had not been one of the intended victims at El Rico then he would reinstated
Alex as his protégé. Instead he had been left with his doubts and fears that
Krycek was playing a role in a far more complicated and dangerous game.
Removing Krycek from the game had become paramount, but those small twinges of
remorse had kept him from carrying it through - until now.
Spender felt that strange feeling come over him again but savagely pushed it
aside, bringing memories of Jeffrey to the forefront of his mind. Jeffrey: his
son. Jeffrey should have been the heir to his empire, but had proved to be weak
and ineffectual.
Unlike Alex.
Alex. Alex had been the catalyst in Jeffrey's betrayal. Alex, with his
quicksilver mind and honeyed tongue, toying with Jeffrey like a cat with a
mouse. On reflection, Spender knew he should have kept them apart but he had
hoped some of Krycek's prowess would have rubbed off on the boy. He sneered. In
truth, it had, and it had almost been a shame to kill Jeffrey. At the end he
had proved he had far more courage than Spender had anticipated. Unfortunately,
it had not been to Spender's benefit... and the blame for that lay with Alexei
Krycek.
He dropped the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray, fumbling in the pack
for a replacement. Sleep would be elusive tonight and he would have to be ready
to leave just before dawn. That strange feeling was clawing at his chest again,
demanding that he see Alex one more time... to say goodbye.
Remote Cabin
Krycek dropped his holdall onto the floor and stared around the small, but
comfortable looking, living room. It was a little more spartan that he had
imagined it would be, and yet, at the same time, far more modern in appearance.
He had half-expected a more rough and hewn interior to match the location. Not
that it really concerned him as it was certainly better than the seamy motel
room he had left behind, with its peeling wallpaper and dubious stains and
smells. He made a quick pass through the cabin to orientate himself with all
the facilities, and then he returned to the car to bring in the provisions. He
had stopped off at a small store about ten miles back and picked up enough to
keep him well-stocked for the duration of his stay; mainly dried foodstuffs and
a couple of bottles of vodka for spiritual comfort. By the time he had packed
the last few items away the sun had set. He shivered as the temperature dropped
suddenly and made his way back into the living room in search of the heating
controls.
It didn't take long before the whole cabin was warm and, after fixing a
quick meal, Krycek settled himself down on one of the comfy armchairs and
opened a battered paperback. Feeling at peace with himself for the first time
in years, Krycek relaxed, taking small sips of the fiery vodka every so often.
When he realised he had read the same paragraph three times he bent over the
corner of the page and placed the book on the table beside him. He sighed,
closed his eyes and listened to the silence.
Eventually his thoughts returned to Walter Skinner but, unlike other times,
he allowed those images to flow across his mind's eye, reliving the look and
feel of the other man.
He had only ever touched Skinner once before, during the fight on the
stairwell, but his hands remembered the solid feel of the man, the hard muscle
beneath layers of clothing.
His eyes remembered, from that night when Mulder had dragged him handcuffed
to Skinner's apartment, salt and pepper hair spattered across the strong
pectorals. He had been so enthralled to be in Skinner's home, looking around as
if he could gain new insight on the man from the possessions on show, that the
sucker-punch to the gut had taken him completely by surprise, but even now, he
felt no resentment towards the other man. After all, he had not held back when
he had attacked him at the hospital, so Skinner was quite within his rights to
exact a little revenge.
He remembered spending the night on that cold balcony, and wondered if he
would ever tell Skinner about the 'warm thoughts' he had dwelt upon, as he
imagined that powerful figure, lying naked, only a few rooms away from where he
sat fully clothed but handcuffed.
Those thoughts returned and he imagined his fingers trailing through the
short chest hairs, finding and teasing a small nipple until it puckered with
desire.
.....He pulled off his T-shirt, dropping it over the arm of the chair, his
fingers mimicking his fantasy upon his own hairless chest.....
His mouth would close upon the sensitive bud, nipping and sucking, and he
could almost hear the deep, guttural moan, and feel the strong, blunt fingers
holding his head in place, as Skinner demanded more. Eventually, Skinner would
release him, pulling his face up for a kiss and his own moans would mingle with
Skinner's as they devoured each other.
Alex knew what he wanted to do next to the other man. He wanted to unzip
those pants and free the burgeoning erection. He wanted to lick the precome
from the flared head, to nuzzle into the thick, curling hair at its base and
inhale the strong masculine scent that was uniquely Skinner.
.....His fingers pulled down the zip on jeans that had become far too tight
for comfort, his erection springing free from captivity, a single pearl of
precome beading on the circumcised head.....
His mouth would swallow the length of swollen flesh while his hand pumped
from the base, until Skinner pushed him away with a deep-throated growl of
need. He would be flipped onto his stomach, his ass raised, begging to be
fucked and Skinner would not disappoint him. Those thick fingers, smeared in
oil would pierce the centre of his being, stroking in and out of him until he
was ready to take something far larger.
.....He forced one saliva-slicked finger passed the tight ring of muscle,
gently massaging the soft inner wall before bringing his hand back to fist his
hardened flesh, almost spoiling the fantasy with a useless wish that he still
had two hands.....
He would cry out in pleasure and pain as the silken steel shaft penetrated
his body, would push himself back until Skinner was fully sheathed and then
rock back and forth to the rhythm their straining bodies desired, the movements
becoming erratic as they strived for that ultimate release.
.....Krycek's fingers moved faster on his own heated flesh, pumping himself
in time to the imagined thrusts. He shuddered as he reached the pinnacle, mouth
gaping, breath gasping as he fell headlong over the edge with a strangled
cry.....
It took a while before his racing heart slowed. He opened his eyes to find
no rich chocolate eyes holding his own, no gentle smile playing about sensuous
lips... no warm breath sighing his name, or strong arms reaching out to enfold
him.
"Shit."
He threw back his head and tried to ignore the stinging of unshed tears as
they formed behind tightly screwed-shut eyelids. Eventually, Krycek pulled
himself together and grabbed the discarded T-shirt. He wiped the spilt semen
from his belly and thighs then stood up to remove the remainder of his clothes
before making his way to the shower where he could wash away the evidence of
his solo performance.
Eventually he made his way to the bedroom, pulled on a fresh T-shirt and a
pair of shorts and burrowed down beneath the warm blankets to sleep.
Just before Dawn the Following Morning
He had been asleep when they came for him, lulled into a false sense of
security within the silent reaches of this remote cabin. They had executed
their entry like a finely tuned machine... smooth, well oiled. Now, as he sat
in the small lounge on the overstuffed couch, handcuffed to one of the thick
wooden arm rests, he was grateful for the coldness of the night air that had,
fortunately, convinced him to sleep in shorts and T-shirt, rather than naked as
he preferred.
Despite his demands, no one spoke to him. Instead, the four-man team ranged
around him in various states of repose, playing a waiting game. They snapped to
attention as the sound of a vehicle approaching reached the cabin. Minutes
later, the door opened, and Krycek was not surprised to see the Smoker.
"Hello, Alex."
Spender reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. He
shook one from the pack and lit it, taking a deep, slow drag as if deliberately
prolonging Krycek's wait. The tension in the air mounted considerably as his
eyes raked across the partially clad frame.
"I gave you one last chance, Alex. A simple order. Kill Assistant Director
Skinner." His eyes narrowed and the silence lengthened. "What, nothing to say
in your defence? No excuses to offer?"
"Would it do any good if I did?"
Spender smiled, and Krycek could almost believe that he had a paternal look
of pride for him on his face, before the expression on the seamed face
hardened again.
"No. Both you and I know this is about far more than AD Skinner. This is
about Jeffrey. My son. The man you turned against his own father..."
Krycek snorted and turned his head away, missing Spender's approach. The
force of Spender's palm against his cheek snapped his head sideways.
"Fuck." Breathing heavily, Krycek glared back at Spender, green eyes blazing
with hatred. "Don't give me that paternal shit. You didn't give a damn about
'poor Jeffrey'..."
A backhand across his face split open his lip and Krycek groaned, his tongue
darting out to catch at the red droplets that welled from the cut before
trickling down his chin.
Spender watched in fascination, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the now
dishevelled appearance, but that strange feeling was coiling in his stomach
again. Standing here, looking at Alex Krycek, was weakening his resolve to put
an end to this thorn in his side. He choked out the words that would doom Alex
before turning away.
"Goodbye, Alex."
Krycek frowned at the finality in Spender's voice, then came realisation.
"Wait. You can still use me. I know things..." Krycek carried on after
Spender had closed the door firmly behind him, addressing the four men instead.
"I have contacts. They can get anything you want..."
A malicious smile curled up the corners of the man nearest to him just
before he interrupted Krycek.
"The man said 'waste him' but I hate to waste a good thing."
"He never said we couldn't have a little fun first."
"What are you going to do to me?"
Krycek's eyes widened in fear as the dark-skinned man pulled a palm-sized
object from his pocket. With the press of a button the blade flicked upwards,
the late afternoon sun glinting off the highly polished surface, highlighting
the razor sharp cutting edge.
Krycek was dragged to his feet and held immobile as the man moved towards
him, his eyes never leaving the face of the madly grinning knife-man with his
brilliant white smile. The flat edge of the blade was pressed against his
cheek, the wicked tip piercing the skin just beneath his left eye. A single
droplet of blood welled up and then slid down the smooth metal. The knife eased
downwards, the point dragging down the length of his throat, lightly scoring
his flesh and leaving a thin red line in its wake.
Krycek closed his eyes, waiting for the blade to slice open his throat. He
gasped as, instead, he felt his T-shirt being pulled. The sharp blade sliced
though the neckline before ripping through the thin cotton until the T-shirt
flapped open from top to bottom. He sobbed quietly as the blade went back up to
trail over his chest, the point digging into the puckered skin of one nipple,
drawing another bead of blood.
"He's quite the pretty one, isn't he?"
The vicious sniggers to either side suddenly gave the words new meaning.
"No. No."
He shook his head as he realised what sort of fun they intended to have.
Another pull of cloth and, suddenly, his shorts were falling to the ground
around his ankles. The cool mountain air against his flesh, and the knowledge
of what was to come, sent uncontrollable shivers through his body.
The rest was a haze of pain and humiliation as each of his captors took
turns to abuse his body. He clearly remembered the first; the incredible pain
of penetration as the knife-man forced his way into the tight, barely
lubricated channel. The man had thrust hard into his unwilling flesh and Krycek
had screamed out in pain and rage until his throat was hoarse. It seemed as if
an eternity had passed but, in reality, it didn't take long before the man's
thrusts had become erratic, and then, with a groan, the man had emptied himself
into his human sheath.
Krycek remembered his head being pulled back, viciously, by the hair and a
slobbering kiss placed on his bruised and bloodied mouth. The words
reverberated around his head.
"Thank you. That was great."
Semen and blood did little to ease the pain as the man's flaccid cock was
pulled from him only to be replaced by the engorged flesh of another as the
next man stepped up behind him.
By the time the fourth man took his turn Krycek was too deeply in shock to
care. He watched, as if from a great distance, as his body jerked with each
snap of the man's hips while the large cock rammed in and out of him. Once the
man had finished he was dropped, without ceremony, to the hard, cold floor.
Laughter rippled over him as his shocked mind observed the man wiping the blood
from his flaccid cock before pushing it back inside his pants. The man gave one
of the others a 'high five' of victory.
Some victory. Fucking a defenceless, one-armed man.
Krycek felt the hysteria start to bubble up inside him, and fought to
contain it as the knife-man knelt down beside him, pulling his head up by the
hair to reveal the white column of his vulnerable throat; the most inane
comments floating through his mind.
Should have kept that stupid-ass haircut.
He expected the knife to be drawn across his throat from ear to ear but the
man smiled, almost benevolently, into his ashen, pain-filled face.
"Your innards are ripped up good, boy. In this remote place no-one is gonna
find you and I don't believe you're gonna be going anywhere - though I kinda
like the idea of seeing you crawling, leaving a trail of blood and cum behind
you like a human snail." The man sneered. "Nah. I'm not gonna kill you
outright. I'm just gonna leave you here. Might take a little longer 'til you
bleed to death. You can spend the time thinking about what you done to piss off
the boss... and to think about me, all hot and thick, reaming your pretty
white ass."
"F-Fuck... you."
"If you're still alive when we get back then I may just fuck you...
again." He grinned. "Hell, I may just fuck you even if you're dead."
The man hawked and then spat directly into Krycek's face, watching with
pleasure as the glob of saliva slid down the side of the bloodied nose. He let
go of Krycek's hair, letting his head drop to the ground with a thud. Another
of his assailants dropped down onto his haunches beside him.
"Well, we'll be off now. Good sex always leaves me with a healthy appetite.
Now don't you worry your pretty ass about getting a decent burial. We'll find
you a nice secluded spot. Be back later."
Krycek hardly noticed as the man grabbed his face and planted an obscene
parody of a lover's kiss full on his mouth. His vision was tunnelling, his mind
retreating beyond the pain, beyond the shame, and he watched with strange
detachment as the men filed out leaving him alone, hopefully to die before they
returned.
"What do we do?"
"Telephone's disconnected... can't find a radio or cellphone."
"I could stay here; take care of him. You could take his car down to that
small store we passed ten miles back..."
"Not leaving you here alone... They might come back..."
"Can't leave him... He'll die."
"Take him with us. Get a sheet or something... a blanket... then you get
into the back seat with him, hold him..."
"So much blood... think he's been raped!"
"Where's the goddamn keys?"
"Forget the keys, John. Just hotwire the motherfucker."
Alex moaned as he felt himself lifted, the dull ache in his lower back
sharpening with each jarring movement. He cried out, hoarsely, as they
manhandled him into the back seat. A blanket was tucked around him but did
little to ease the chill that was spreading through his body. The voices
continued, seeming to come from a great distance.
"Fuck. There's blood all over me now..."
"Shove a towel between his legs... can't do much else."
"He's gonna bleed to death at this rate."
"Probably not as bad as it looks... What if they think we done it?"
What are they talking about? Done what?
"Don't be stupid, Mikey. Forensics'll show that cum ain't ours. DNA checks."
Cum...? Oh God... No. It's just a nightmare. Can't be real. Can't be
real. No. NO. "No. No..."
"Jesus, he's coming round... Hey, man, you're safe... shit, mind the fucking
bumps."
"This ain't suburbia you know. They don't maintain these kinda tracks."
Krycek cried out as he was jarred once more. The voices were getting closer.
He was already starting to form a mental picture of two young men; could feel
the warmth of a body beneath his head. He tried to pull himself away.
"Keep still, Man... We ain't gonna hurt you..."
Krycek cried out as the car jolted, throwing him sideways but, fortunately,
Mikey stopped him from falling into the footwell between the front and rear
seats.
"Shit, John, just try to avoid a few of the damn potholes, that's all I
ask."
"Don't worry, the highway's just ahead. It'll be smooth rolling from here on
in."
"Where're... you taking... me?"
"Hey, man. Keep still. You're hurt real bad. You need a Doc..."
"No... hospitals. They'll find me... kill me."
"Those men lit out..."
"NO. They're coming back... finish the job off."
"You need a Doc, Man. You don't get to a hospital and they won't need to
finish you off."
"No... No hospital."
He watched the one who held him look forward; a 'what the hell do we do with
him' look on his face.
"A number. I'll give you a number. Call it. Tell... what happened..."
AD Skinner's Office
There was a time when he had harboured sweet fantasies about Alex Krycek.
They had started the day that oh so young and enthusiastic,
fresh-out-of-Quantico kid had breezed into his office with the case notes on Dr
Grissom. To most people, the cheap suit and slicked back hair would have fooled
them into believing this was some green kid, but Skinner had a far more
discerning eye. His eyes had caught the subtle body language of a man who had
spent time in a more disciplined environment, certainly more disciplined than
Quantico. The body itself was the stuff of dreams; long legs, broad shoulders,
firm fuckable ass. The lean, muscular figure of a man that worked out
regularly, but not necessarily in a Gym. It was an athlete's body, built for
action, held in readiness despite the relaxed stance, but there was more than
just a good body beneath those clothes. The figure was complimented by a
beautiful face. Green eyes shone between a thick curtain of dark lashes, the
pert nose with its slight upturn and those delicately shaped ears. As to the
mouth...
Skinner sighed. He still had fantasies about that mouth; the deep cupid's
bow and fleshy lower lip stretched around his engorged flesh while those eyes,
darkened in lust, gazed up at him. Yes. He would have Alex on his knees before
him. His fingers would card through the soft, sable hair; would drift down the
column of exposed neck as Krycek deep-throated him, and, all the while, those
eyes would be begging for more. Skinner closed his own eyes to shut out all but
this image of Alex Krycek kneeling before him. He smiled in satisfaction at the
thought of having this man at his mercy: so tempted to allow his thoughts to
travel down a darker path where he would use Krycek brutally; pay him back for
every agonising moment inflicted upon him by the nanocytes. But, despite all he
had endured, he could not find it within him to be so violent no matter how
much he felt Krycek deserved such treatment.
His fantasy continued, domination steering his thoughts rather than sadism.
He would pull out of that luscious mouth and push those broad shoulders to the
floor, pausing momentarily to admire the curve of the beautiful ass, raised and
waiting for his hardened flesh to plunge deep between those firm cheeks.
The phone on his desk brought him back, and he shifted uncomfortably as the
tightness in his pants made itself known, his eyes widening in realisation of
how close he had come to... to... coming, in his office, in broad daylight,
with his Secretary next door, barely ten feet away.
He bit back a groan as the dull ache of unsatisfied lust spread through his
body, gathered his thoughts and reached for the phone before the end of the
fourth ring, speaking brusquely.
"Skinner."
When he replaced the phone in it's cradle a few minutes later he had almost
forgotten the fantasy. He balled up a used piece of paper and dropped it into
the waste, his eyes catching sight of the broken pieces of plastic and
electronics. Skinner reached down and picked up the two larger pieces of
casing, fitting them together once more.
"Why, Alex? Why this... and why now?"
Several Hours Later
A car rolled to a stop outside the front entrance and Skinner could make out
the forms of two youths, probably only in their late teens, early twenties. The
voice on the phone had sounded young and frightened. He strode forward to meet
the car, relaxing the severity of his expression when he caught the look of
fear that passed between the two boys.
"I'm Assistant Director Skinner, FBI."
Skinner opened the rear door and glanced into the back seat, his mouth
falling open in shock. They had said he was hurt bad but he had written that
off as youthful panic. The blanket had slipped aside revealing Krycek's naked,
blood streaked body lying curled up with his battered face upon one of the
boy's laps. Sweat-soaked hair hung limply against the fevered forehead, massive
purple bruises and angry red bite marks marred the ivory skin of both face and
body.
"Stay there. I'll get help."
Skinner raced back into the clinic and, moments later, was followed out by a
burly man with wavy salt and pepper hair. Another man, an orderly, followed
close behind. The older man reached in and touched Krycek's face.
"You still with us? We're going to have to move you. Get you into the clinic
where I can take a good look at those injuries..."
"NO. No... hospital... Skinner... want Skinner..."
Walter Skinner opened the other rear door, the one closest to Krycek's face.
He eased the boy out and then reached in to touch the sable hair, pushing the
damp locks from the man's forehead.
"It's okay, Alex. I'm here. You're safe here. Gordon Maine is a friend of
mine... and he's a doctor..."
"Skinner?" Green eyes, heavy with pain, with unevenly dilated pupils tried
to focus on him. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
Skinner swallowed angrily, unsure what Krycek was apologising for. Was he
sorry for the nanocytes? For the agony he had caused, for nearly killing him?
Was he sorry for betraying Mulder, for Scully? Or was he sorry for himself?
Sorry for dragging him here just in time to see him die. That last thought
angered Skinner most of all for a reason he wasn't willing to fathom.
"Don't you dare die on me, Krycek."
A smile curled up the thickened, bloodied lips. "Didn't... know you...
cared."
Skinner bit hard on his tongue to prevent himself from lashing out at the
injured man. His face reddened as an unbidden thought entered, shattering some
of the stone wall he had built around himself.
But you do care.
Krycek cried out softly, as if he had no energy left to scream, when Maine
and Skinner eased him from the car with the help of the others. He was placed
onto the gurney that appeared behind Maine as they struggled with the heavy,
unresisting man. Skinner stilled his first impulse to chase after the gurney,
and turned towards the two boys instead.
"We need to talk."
They glanced at each other uneasily and then nodded their agreement,
following the AD into the clinic. Skinner pointed them to some seats, the
message clear that he expected them to sit there and wait for his return. He
stopped and spoke quietly to the receptionist, asking her if she wouldn't mind
getting them something to drink. He glanced back at the two boys once before
disappearing through a set of double doors, hoping they wouldn't skip out on
him the moment his back was turned, for, as soon as he had spoken to Gordon he
intended to question them on what they had seen.
"Gordy?"
Gordon Maine looked up from the where he was attaching a drip. His face was
set into a hard, almost expressionless mask. He stepped aside as one of his
assistants began working over the unconscious body.
"The bastards that did this tore him up bad inside. I'm having him
prepped... expect to be operating within a few minutes... so make it fast."
Skinner stared across at the gurney, wondering how the Alex Krycek he knew
could look so small and fragile. A stab of fear made his chest feel tight but
he raised his eyes back to his friend.
"I'll be waiting outside."
Maine nodded, realising how close Skinner had come to telling him to 'do his
best'... as if he did not expect anyone to put themselves out for the
brutally raped man lying before him. He turned back to the task of preparing
himself, his mind focusing so completely on this that he had forgotten Skinner
existed before the man had even made it to the door.
Same Time
"What do you mean 'He's gone'?"
Spender's face darkened in anger as his employee explained that they had
returned to bury the body but Krycek had gone.
"How can a dead man vanish?"
The gentleness with which Spender placed the phone onto its cradle belied
the anger that shook his body. With outer calmness he took out and lit a
Morley, sucking the nicotine and tar deep into his lungs then exhaled slowly,
watching the blue-tinged plume of smoke curl up towards the ceiling. He leant
back in his chair and turned his thoughts inward.
"Incompetence. I'm surrounded by incompetent fools."
Spender picked up the phone and depressed a series of buttons.
"Send for Mr Harris."
Several Hours Later
Skinner could hardly believe that the pale figure lying unconscious on the
bed was the same man who had caused such havoc in his life, both emotional and
physical. Bruises and swelling marred the perfection of the beautiful face but,
underneath it all, Skinner could still see echoes of the enthusiastic,
fresh-faced kid that had come into his office that first day. He reached out to
touch the soft hair, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires that seemed to run
everywhere; feeding drugs, removing waste, monitoring life-signs. The steady
beep was strangely comforting and he drew the seat closer to the bed, reaching
out to hold Krycek's right hand... his only hand. He turned the hand over in
his own, careful not to disturb the tube taped to the soft inner arm just below
the elbow. The fingers were long and slender compared to his own; the knuckles,
bruised and swollen.
Skinner grimaced. At least Krycek hadn't gone down without a fight. He
traced the outline of the lips that had fuelled so many of his fantasies -
another bruised, split and swollen feature but, like all of his injuries, it
would heal in time. Spender spoke softly to the sleeping man.
"I ought to hate you." He sighed deeply. "But I don't."
In truth, seeing Krycek so vulnerable and broken had stripped away the final
barrier, allowing him to acknowledge that what he felt for Alex Krycek went far
beyond lust and the need to avenge himself by slaking his carnal desires on
that body.
The soft sound of a door opening behind him drew Skinner back from his
thoughts, and he carefully replaced the limp hand upon the coverlet before
half-turning in his seat to face the newcomer, expecting it to be his friend,
Maine.
Skinner jumped to his feet, the chair crashing backwards as the smell of
cigarette smoke drifted across the room, the bluey-grey cloud wafting in the
gentle breeze from the open window. He watched, warily, as Spender approached
the bed, keeping himself between the Smoker and his former employee.
Spender smiled, enigmatically; a half-smile that curved up only a single
corner of the seamed mouth.
"Do not concern yourself, Mr Skinner. I have no intention of harming Mr
Krycek."
Skinner sneered. He knew what had happened up in the Appalachians. The boys
had been camped close by and had been awakened just before dawn by the sudden
activity surrounding the cabin. From a nearby vantage point they had watched a
man who fitted the Smoker's description leave the area - and then they had
heard the muffled screams from within. Morbid curiosity had overridden common
sense and they had gradually drawn near, entering the cabin as soon as the four
mens' vehicle had driven out of sight.
Spender leaned over to afford himself a better view of the unconscious man,
silently cataloguing the visible damage even as his mind dwelt on the other
more serious injuries.
When he first learnt that Alex was still alive he had been angry. The man
was like a cat with nine lives. His first impulse was to send in another team
to finish the job, but then he had discovered the abuse meted out by the
incompetent, would-be assassins after he had left the cabin... and the thought
was so completely abhorrent to him. It was as if they had brutally raped his
own son.
He had dealt, personally, with the offenders. Unlike Alex Krycek, there was
no possibility of any of them turning up alive. They had found their own
secluded burial spot in the mountains.
As he had waited to hear from Harris, he had reflected on this, and it
seemed strangely fitting that Krycek should be allowed to live with the
knowledge of what had been done to him. Perhaps this would be a far greater
form of revenge on the spirited younger man than death itself.
Locating Krycek had been far too easy but then, whom else could Alex turn to
other than AD Walter Skinner? Mulder? No. Mulder would not lift a finger to
help Krycek, would, probably, just sit and watch him die. Dana Scully perhaps?
Again, no. Her loyalty to her partner had been proven beyond question. There
would be little benefit getting Scully to patch him up only so Mulder could
injure him again... or place him in the sort of unenviable position where death
would be a blessing. In the end, Krycek had only one place left to turn... to
the man he loved.
So, by the time Harris had narrowed the search down to this 'poor mans'
clinic, run by an ex-Marine buddy of AD Skinner, he had decided that Alex
Krycek had paid a high enough price already in his short life.
"Alex has survived several... accidents over the past few years, but I
wonder just how many more lives he has left. Perhaps it's time he retired from
the game."
"And if he does retire?"
"Then there would be no need for any more... accidents to befall him."
Skinner recognised the implied threat but, looking down at the vulnerable,
abused figure, he realised this could be the one chance Alex had left to him.
"And the conditions?"
"It seems Alex has formed a very unhealthy attachment to you, Mr Skinner.
I'm certain you will be able to persuade him to choose a new career. Something
very different from his current line of work."
Skinner barely heard past the first sentence, his mind reeling from the
possibility that Krycek might actually reciprocate his feelings.
Spender dropped the butt of his cigarette into the cup of water by the side
of the bed, turned on his heel and started to walk away.
"Why?"
Spender paused, glancing back over his shoulder. He knew what Skinner was
asking. Why was he going to allow Alex to live when he had made so many
attempts on the younger man's life?
"Perhaps I, too, have a certain attachment to the boy."
He smiled, enigmatically, then walked away without looking back, his smile
broadening in remembrance of the look of bewilderment crossing Skinner's often
stony face.
Pain. His last memory was of pain; excruciating pain... and of Walter
Skinner. The deep baritone voice had offered gentle assurances, the soft touch
a physical reinforcement of those words. He had been offered up to strangers,
felt cool damp cloth on his heated skin, endured the sharp sensations of
needles pricking his sensitised flesh... then blackness had followed the
iciness that flowed up his arm as the anaesthetic took hold.
He opened his eyes to mere slivers, cautiously flicking his sight around the
room until he came to a figure slumped into an easy chair a few feet from the
bed. He allowed his lids to open wider so he could study the sleeping form -
and smiled.
Walter Skinner had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. The rolled
up shirt sleeves emphasised the muscular arms and shoulders. For once, the AD
did not look as if his own clothes were slowly strangling him. He was the type
of build that never looked comfortable in a suit, unlike Mulder who looked like
he had just stepped off the cover of GQ. Skinner's frame was too powerful; too
muscular; too stocky, but it was the type of build that had always interested
Alex. He knew the man worked out, mainly with weights but, from experience he
knew Skinner liked to box too. He could understand the attraction of Boxing. It
was like a dance; skilfully turning around your opponent, probing for and
exploiting weaknesses with short, sharp jabs. Waiting for that moment of
distraction when the guard would go down and taking advantage with forceful
body blows. It was a lot like his own life, except, in the real world, it was
not a game; not a sport, but a necessary means of survival.
With infinite care he started to catalogue the damage to his body, but
groaned as his attempt to move sent agony through his abdomen. When the pain
finally let go it's tight grip he reopened his eyes to find velvet brown ones
looking down into his. He froze. It hadn't been his intention to draw any
attention to himself.
"How're you feeling?"
Alex stared up into the caring eyes for a moment longer before flicking his
eyes away in fear and embarrassment.
"Like shit."
"If it's any consolation, Krycek, you look like shit."
"Gee, thanks. I'd hate to feel... this bad and... look like nothing
happened." Krycek saw Skinner withdraw as the sarcasm reached him. "Hey, I'm -
I'm sorry. Can't help being a bit of a... grouch..."
"No, Alex. You don't need to apologise."
It was an uneasy silence that descended, neither realising the reason for
this, being too wrapped up in their own fears and needs. Eventually, it was
Alex who spoke.
"How bad?"
"It was touch and go for awhile."
"They... raped me."
Skinner's eyes seemed to narrow slightly under Krycek's watchful gaze.
Surreptitiously, he searched the AD's face but was relieved when he found
nothing but concern flood those warm, brown eyes.
"I know."
The response was soft, almost like the distant rumble of a summer storm,
full of hidden meaning but Alex could detect nothing that made him seem less of
a man in the AD's eyes. He didn't want the man's pity and was grateful to see
none. He watched as Skinner appeared to make several attempts to say something
and smiled, wryly.
"It's okay, you know. About the rape, I mean. Wasn't the first time..."
Alex frowned, wondering why he had volunteered that information, afraid it
had made him seem even more of a victim knowing that he had been abused before.
He knew he hadn't deserved it - then and now... or had he? Why did it seem as
if everyone wanted a piece of him; his arm, his knowledge, his dignity, his
life... his ass. His introspection was cut short by gentle words.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I'm tired." His eyes widened in the knowledge that he was telling the
truth. He was tired; tired in body, tired in spirit.
"Then get some more rest. We can always talk later. You're safe here..."
"No. They'll be back for me..."
"No, they won't. Local Police made a sweep of the area where you were
attacked. Found four bodies in a shallow grave. Killed, execution style, with a
single bullet to the back of the head..."
Puzzlement crossed the battered face for a moment, and then Krycek decided
those men had paid for their incompetence. He grimaced. At least it saved him
the job of hunting them down and killing them himself, but...
"He'll just send someone else..."
"No, Alex. He's already been here, while you were out. Seems he has decided
to give you a reprieve."
Not 'a reprieve'... another reprieve. Why? When?
"Just how long have I been here?"
"Three days."
"Three...?"
Krycek coughed as the talking irritated his dry throat. He smiled in
gratitude when Skinner lifted his head and placed a straw into his mouth. He
sipped at the cool liquid then motioned to be let back down.
"Thank you."
Skinner nodded. He pressed the call button and then sat back down on the
easy chair. An easier silence descended as they stared across the room at each
other, lost in their own thoughts. From his obvious familiarity with the room
Krycek could guess that the AD had been here on a more than a few occasions.
Some small childlike part of him wanted to know if it were true, wanted to be
reassured that someone might actually care about him. He was about to ask when
the door opened to reveal a man who seemed strangely familiar to him.
Dr Maine smiled at his patient.
"You had us all pretty scared there for a while, son. Walt has hardly left
your side, except to put in minimal hours at the office."
Krycek's eyes moved back in time to see the heat rise in Skinner's face
before the man turned away in embarrassment, grateful that the doctor had
volunteered that information, but even more pleased by Skinner's reaction. Had
Skinner sought only to ensure Krycek could not slip away before he had a chance
of exacting some form of revenge, then those eyes would have remained as hard
as flint. No. This was the reaction of someone who might actually care what
happened to him.
He waited, patiently, until those dark eyes turned to him once more, then
held them with his own. For a split second he thought he could see something he
had often dreamed about.
Krycek gave a soft smile. He had always been a dreamer, never truly
belonging in a world of death, lies, secrets and betrayal. He had walked along
a crooked path, often falling over the cracks of his remaining conscience, only
the pain and loneliness of his chosen life keeping him moving along; any
remorse, sorrow and dreams of happiness buried deep. There had been no reason,
and no willingness to find another path; a straighter path... not until he
recognised the depth of feeling he had for Walter Skinner.
Skinner looked away as his friend, Maine, called his attention, but, as
Krycek gazed through still blackened eyes at the strong profile of a man who
ought to hate him, he felt a glimmer of something that he had thought was lost
to him... a dream of a brighter future. He wasn't certain, and the future was
by no means a clear-cut path laid out before him. But, for the first time in
many years, he felt the beginnings of hope swell within.
Dreamer of Dreams
alter Skinner turned the bulky envelope over in his hands several times, his
lips a tight line of annoyance. Kimberley, his secretary, always waited until
he had finished that first coffee of the day before bringing in any new post,
allowing him the chance to unwind after a hectic journey through the early
morning commuter traffic. Today was different, she had handed the package to
him as soon as he had walked in, saying that it had come down through the
Director's office and needed his immediate attention. He placed it on his desk,
removed his coat and then reached for the coffee. Whatever it was, it had
waited this long so another few minutes was not going to matter that much.
Washington DC
Upper Appalachians
Upper Appalachians
FBI Headquarters
Free Clinic
Downtown, Washington DC
New York City
Free Clinic
Washington DC
